Don’t worry, Bernie had said over the phone, you’ll get there after the shift change. The hell’s that supposed to mean? Dorsey had replied. Bernie explained further that the shift change at Al’s was between six-thirty and seven when the after-work drunks, the ones Dorsey had to worry about, were on their way home to dinner. Then the evening drunks arrive, Bernie said, the old single guys who sip on beer until the eleven o’clock news is over. They won’t give you trouble; you’ll be safe. The young ones: worry about them. They’ll kick your ass, they catch up with you.
“Wrong again, Bern,” Dorsey muttered as he stepped into the bar. Three young men, about age thirty, sat at the near end of the bar, dressed in flannel shirts and blue jeans splattered with dried cement. The man sitting in the middle looked over his shoulder and elbowed his friends.
“Over there, the guy from TV,” Dorsey heard the middle one tell his friends. “Told ya he came in here.”
The workman nearest Dorsey pushed himself from the bar and took a firm grip on the neck of his emptied beer bottle. Knowing he had little chance of outrunning all three men and a flying beer bottle, Dorsey moved in, crowding the guy and making it impossible for him to take a full swing. Then Dorsey locked his eyes on the workman, hoping for a stare-down. It’s my only chance against all three, he thought, convinced he was about to be knocked down for the second time that day.
“Hey, fella,” Al said softly from behind the bar. Gently, he tapped the workman’s shoulder with the business end of a thirty-two-ounce baseball bat. The workman turned slowly, and Al worked the bat under his chin.
“Friendly place this is, civilized.” Al watched all three men, alternately looking each one in the eye. “We’d like to keep it that way. You guys are disturbing the peace. As owner and operator, only I am allowed to do that. Get out.”
The workman saved his dignity with a few moments’ icy stare, then slowly backed toward the door while his friends scooped up their change from the bar. Keeping the bat at port arms, Al came around the bar and watched as they left.
“Al, you were beautiful,” Dorsey said. “Like the new marshal in town. Fresh off the last stage from Dodge City.”
“Careful, fella.” Al took Dorsey by the elbow and led him to the back room. “Treasure the friends you have, us loyal ones. The six o’clock news was very popular tonight; you were not. Watch your step here.”
Al’s back room never failed to impress Dorsey with its size. Its walls lined with red leatherette booths and its dance floor tiled in red and white check, it had a Wurlitzer on the far wall. By the jukebox’s dim light he could see Bernie sitting in a booth just to the left, peeling the label from a bottle of Michelob with his thumb.
“Missed all the action, Bern.” Dorsey slipped into the booth opposite Bernie. Al remained standing, leaning on the bat. “Al just saved my relatively young ass from some guys who, according to you, should’ve been home and drunk and passing out in the meat loaf and mashed potatoes by now. You misled me, but Al was there to fix things.”
“There’s been more than enough action in my life for one day,” Bernie said, sipping his beer. “I was going to ask you if you have any idea how much shit hit my personal fan this afternoon after word of your little adventure leaked out. I surmise there is no way for you to truly appreciate it, but your opportunity to do so will come up in two days.”
“Hell’s that supposed to mean?” Dorsey looked at Al, who merely shrugged his shoulders. “Honest, it wasn’t my intention when I got up this morning to get cracked in the head and dragged into a cell. Or to get you in hot water. Sorry. Fill me in.”
“Al,” Bernie said. “Couple more beers?”
“Sure, sure. Got a bar to run anyways. I’ll send Russie back with ’em. But the next time one of you guys has a spare moment, bring me up to date. Following your adventures makes my day.” He headed back to the bar, twirling the bat in his right hand.
Bernie leaned in closer to the tabletop. “Seriously, Dorsey, today was a bad one. About ten after four, one of the clerks walks up to my desk and says that Mr. Everette, senior, wants to see me right away. You have to put this in perspective; the only time I have words with Mr. Everette, senior, of Everette, MacLeod, and Lancer, is at the Christmas party when I get to kiss his ring. And I haven’t won any big cases or landed any big accounts lately, so I was sure it would not go well. Which it did not.”
“Said I was sorry,” Dorsey said. Russie, unshaven and wearing a black watch cap, brought their beer to the table on a small round tray. Bernie paid for the beers while Dorsey dropped two quarters onto the tray.
“You’re a good guy,” Russie said to Dorsey. “Always was. You was a good kid too. How’s your dad?”
“Good. Last I saw him he was good. See you around, Russie.”
“Before I start up again,” Bernie said, “how come you’re still supporting that rummy?”
“Russie?” Dorsey said. “Russie was a ward heeler over here for the old man. County worker. He used to wash the big shots’ cars at the City-County Building. The old man used to tip him three bucks for a wash, five for a wax job.” Dorsey set down his beer and shrugged. “Fuck’s it to you what I do with my money? He’s a good guy, loyal. Now, tell me what’s going on in the so-called halls of justice.”
Bernie pulled at his beer and wiped his lips with the printed napkin Russie left behind. “Well, I’m in Everette’s office, and he’s behind this huge desk that twelve mahogany trees gave their lives for. Doesn’t ask me to sit down, but he does say it is his understanding that I know you personally. I told him we’re good friends. Then he asks if I know who you are presently working for. I said I thought you were on pretty steady with Fidelity Casualty.”
“The guy was playing with you,” Dorsey said. “Corso must’ve called, right after the trouble in Midland. Everette knew the answers before he asked the questions.”
“Maybe he did,” Bernie said, “but not from Corso. Corso doesn’t call a full partner. He talks to me or some other guy on the ass end of the totem pole. You ever hear of a guy named John Munt?”
Dorsey did a quick mental run-through of his client list. “No.”
“He’s at Fidelity Casualty’s home office. In Syracuse.” Bernie sipped his beer and silently eyed a fortyish-looking woman standing at the room’s entrance, peering into the dim light. When she appeared satisfied with her observations, she left. Bernie resumed his story. “This Munt has direct supervision over Corso. The way I see it, Corso heard about you on the radio, shit his pants, and called Munt. Possibly Munt has been reading your reports.”
“So he called Everette.” Dorsey set down his beer and held out his palms in submission.
“No.” Bernie shook his head and tried unsuccessfully to suppress a grin. “No, Munt called an old college buddy, a Mr. Charles Cleardon. And I already know you don’t know him, so I won’t ask. You two move in different social circles. I am given to understand he is a senior officer of the Calumet Corporation, which owns Fidelity Casualty. He called Everette.”
“And he wants something done,” Dorsey said.
“Quickly,” Bernie said. “He’s very concerned about corporate image. He wants something done fast, and that something involves a meeting with you.”
“Just me? To find out if I’m loyal, trustworthy, and brave?”
“Not by a long shot,” Bernie said. “They’re going to circle the wagons this Friday at two-thirty. Cleardon and Munt are flying in. Corso will be there too, sweating bullets, I’m sure. Everette may attend and bring me along as caddy. And a guy from the DA’s office.”
Dorsey set down his beer, so startled he nearly toppled it. “Why the DA’s office? Nobody’s preferring charges. There’s no complaint filed.”
“His attendance will be strictly informal,” Bernie said. “But face it, if your reports are right, we have insurance fraud, a conspiracy. This is Mr. Everette’s idea. The DA’s rep will also be sitting in for the DA offices in Westmoreland, Washington, and Beaver counties. And anywhere else you’ve been snooping lately.”
“So I appear before all the big guns.”
“That’s right,” Bernie said. “So you better get your shit straight.”
“And how do I go about that?”
As Bernie filled him in, Russie appeared at the booth and tapped Dorsey’s shoulder. Bernie looked annoyed but Russie waved him off and spoke to Dorsey.
“Al says you gotta leave inna little bit. And you gotta use the back door, through the kitchen.”
“How come?”
Russie leaned in closer. “Al said to remind you about the three guys who were on your ass when you came in. He expects them to be out front waitin’ on you. Al says you should be expectin’ that, too. So like he says, use the back door.”
“Thanks, Russie, thanks a lot and tell Al thanks, too.” Dorsey turned back to Bernie. “And you ask me why I take care of the guy?”